


Way To Fall

by Gozufucker



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Arrest, Gen, Loss, Prison, Spoilers, headcanons, obligatory "gozufucker can't tag" tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9793955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gozufucker/pseuds/Gozufucker
Summary: SonYou've got a way to fallThey'll tell you where to goBut they won't know





	

Son  
You've got a way to kill  
They're picking on you still  
But they don't know

The chains clacked together in a grim melody that sang out the tune to a glorious death, the orange fabric sticking onto his back like sins, hooking on and never letting go. Maybe it was due to the sweat. Working out always left the little man in a state of dress where he almost felt like he'd need a knife to skin away the clothes. His coach had always warned him about overworking himself. His body was smaller, and many worried that one day the tennis star would overload himself and cause something to break with the constant work he put into his body. 

Son  
You'd better wait to shine  
They'll tell you what is yours  
But they'll take mine

He remembers the burning feeling, turning around the corner. The usual guard stares him down, baton in hand, patting it against his shoulder as if to signal that he shouldn't even think of doing anything out of line. Hoshi simply rolled his eyes, nailing them up at the guard. That thousand yard stare caused chills to run down the guard's spine, the baton retracting back, leaving Hoshi alone as he walked. His eyes nailed back to the floor, thinking back to that one day. The day when he came back from practice, sweaty just like this.

He remembers the corpses. He remembers their positioning all too well, placed in a manner that'd cause even the biggest gore enthusiast to keel and ask who would do something so sick and against all laws of nature. He remembers the head in the mailbox, too. He remembers that feeling so well, that feeling of being thrown away and stomped on by the one that trained and raised you up, the feeling of losing /everything./ It's all burned to his mind like the prison uniform on his back is burnt into his skin, fused there as a sickly lump that'd fester and rot his skin until he'd be but a bare skeleton.

Son  
You'd better take it all  
They'll tell you what they know  
But they won't show

That's where the killing begun. The progress of removing that whole group from the face of this earth, one at a time. At first, he'd thought about brutalizing them all like they had done to those he loved. But that'd be sinking to their level. Maybe it was some sick sense of honour, or some manner of compassion for his fellow man that lingered even when that belief had been beaten and battered into a bloody pulp, but he chose to simply kill them. A blunt object to the head. At first, he interrogated before he killed them. The first few were not as lucky as the rest. They had to see who did the deed. Hear who did the deed.

With enough information, he didn't need that middle point. It was a simple throw and hit and launch, ball cracking against skull, breaking through it, scrambling the brains into a mush of bangers and mash that'd be unrecognizable to even the most experienced of doctors and morgue workers. Retrieving the ball became secondary to the death. He could always get a new custom made ball. After all, it's not like he was broke. Inheritance and tennis money, that's what fueled his crusade.

Oh  
There's a hole inside my boat  
And I need stay afloat  
For the summer  
Long

He steps into the creaking elevator, waiting for a guard to flip the switch, breathing electric life to the machine as it shouts out loudly in rusty pain, dragging him upwards, along with a few other prisoners. Thugs. Insurance frauders. Many men of bad backgrounds, but none as bad as him. He'd killed too many for him to feel satisfied. When the leader fell, when he lowered that racket, when he realized it was all over, he didn't feel that self satisfaction he had set out to achieve. No joy. No feeling of having avenged mother, or father, or even... Them. Nothing of the sort.

The only thing that came to was the feeling of having nothing. And that feeling was the one thing he had sought to escape from by gaining revenge. The following day, the newspapers were filled with headlines of Killer Tennis turning himself in. Conflicting headlines of the victim count, victim reports that were utter bullshit, media outburst over a detective that had "cracked the case since the beginning." It was all horrible bullshit he wanted no part of. The media rumba wouldn't take him with it, god dammit.

He'd take himself.

The elevator came to a screeching halt, the gears crying out for sweet grease to ease their pain. Hoshi stared at the cell door as it was slowly wrung open by the guard, a singular pat on the back by his hand causing Hoshi to walk inside. As plain as ever. He went over to the bed, hopping on to take a seat, legs swinging front and back as he then caught latched onto the one belonging he'd been permitted. A ball, a signed one. "For Ryoma ❤︎"

He began to throw it against the wall. The bouncing noise was muted out by the racket. People yelling in their cells. A fight broke out somewhere, between someone unimportant and someone just as unimportant as the last man. Nothing was important anymore. That was the standard of Hoshi Ryoma. The end of the SHSL tennis player.

Oh  
I've got something in my throat  
I need to be alone  
While I suffer


End file.
